Memories
by Blueberry Absinth
Summary: Both of them were drunk, both of them was crazy for even thinking what they were thinking. Both of them knew the risks and was intent on continuing on... Collection of Namiku one-shots.


**I took (cough-stole-cough) the idea of a Namiku collection from WhiteRosesHaveBlackThorns (a.k.a. Rosey-tan). She also proposed the title so this chapter's for her ^.^ Give her loves! xD**

**From now on, everything remotely creative that I write and features Namiku, will be sent here. I may rewrite my other one-shots and add them here, but true to my Code of Laziness, I doubt I will xD **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything, unless you count those strawberries in front of my laptop (yum, strawberries) :D**

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Carnival

Memories are a colourful thing. Flashing with almost forgotten smiles, glistening with unshed tears, they are one of the infinite number of incredulous things that create Sora. Midnight-blue and soft breath, sand-yellow and laughter, black and furrowed brows, everything is a huge carnival of paint and sounds, and smells, and the overwhelming sense of happiness. The sun fades in comparison to it.

Back then, Naminé knew that she would struggle to capture that on her white sheet, spread out before her. Yet, still, when she severed the ties of the festival that was roaming the plain rooms of Castle Oblivion, when she erased his memories, she knew she was ready to take on that challenge.

For Sora.

Sora is a boy who brings the colours and the joy to every dark and gloomy place. He is a riot, in the good sense – he combines something from everywhere to make everything in one special 'somewhere'. He is amazing but the little Nobody knows the extent of his feelings towards her Somebody to ever _force_ herself to extend her 'feeling' of worship to something else.

Over one year she draws and draws, and draws. With all her powers and lack of experience, and never smiling face, it takes her more time than assumed to remake every little clevis of Sora's memory. His memories aren't exactly a chain – they are a ribbon, a rainbow-coloured cloth that used to cling tightly around his ever-so-enourmous heart, but now hang like the dull dress of a ragged doll. A rainbow-coloured cloth whose threads are a separate memory, different in shade, different in emotion.

It is hard to pick the right one from thousand little strands, tinier than cobwebs. Namine continues on but one sentence still lingers in the white silence of her room.

"This carnival is over," DiZ had said and back then she suddenly 'felt' like abandoning everything and running away. Even now, when that particular memory of hers crawls on the walls like a black spider, she still wants to hurl up and breathe herself to sleep.

The only escape from the spider is a big thread of almost-black, mixed with silver and the most beautiful and unique turquoise she has ever seen. Throughout the whole year he stands next to her and forces the fear, the pink rose petals away. Marluxia is gone.

Riku comforts her when there is a thunderstorm out there, silently telling her that Larxene is gone. When it's cold, he declares that Vexen is gone.

Lexaeus is gone. Zexion is gone. No one of them will be able to touch her again. She is far-away.

But the shadows and the illusions are still here.

Riku controls them, not letting them hurt her.

Yet, the crayon feels like lead as she lowers it to her little pearly canvas and she thinks of everything – of his memories, of the past and the future and the present. The past, with its deadly white, pink and blue, the future with the coming battle and the present with Riku, everything is just a circle. Despite that she continues on.

In the end, when she isn't useful anymore, as she leads her Somebody to find Sora, she remembers what Riku had told her long, long ago. And, feeling her stomach twist into a knot at the thought of her shadow-boy, Naminé still feels the power of his words, feels happy that she's heard him say them.

"This carnival is over," Riku had said and somehow that made her want to dance and jump and hug him and overall be happy.

That farce, that all-too colourful splotch is finally gone.

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**The one who tells what I've smoke while writing this, receives a pat on the back and bishie plushies of choice ^.^**


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